Part 68 (1/2)
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
THE WATCHWORD.
While the lost son of Ammergau was quietly and sadly permitting the miracle of his home to produce its effect upon him, and rising from one revelation to another along the steep path which again led him to the cross, the countess was languis.h.i.+ng in the oppressive atmosphere of the capital and its relations.
Three days had pa.s.sed since the parting from Freyer, but she scarcely knew it! She lived behind her closed curtains and in the evenings sat in the light of lamps subdued by opalescent shades, as if in a never-changing white night, in which there could be neither dusk nor dawn. And it was the same in her soul. Reason--cold, joyless reason, with its calm, monotonous light, now ruled her, she had exhausted all the forces of grief in those farewell hours. For grief, too, is a force which can be exhausted, and then the soul will rest in indifference.
Everything was now the same to her. The sacrifice and the cost of the sacrifice. What did the world contain that was worth trouble and anxiety? Nothing! Everything she had hoped for on earth had proved false--false and treacherous. Life had kept its promise to her in nothing; there was no happiness, only he who had no desires was happy--a happiness no better than death! And she had not even reached that stage! She still wanted so many things: honor, power, beauty, and luxury, which only wealth procures--and therefore this also.
Now she flung herself into the arms of beauty--”seeking in it the divine” and the man who offered her his hand in aid would understand how to obtain for her, with taste and care, the last thing she expected from life--pleasure! Civilization had claimed her again, she was the woman of the century, a product of civilization! She desired nothing more. A marriage of convenience with a clever, aristocratic man, with whom she would become a patron of art and learning; a life of amus.e.m.e.nt and pleasurable occupation she now regarded as the normal one, and the only one to be desired.
While Freyer, among his own people, was returning to primitiveness and simplicity, she was constantly departing farther from it, repelled and terrified by the phenomena with which Nature, battling for her eternal rights, confronted her. For Nature is a tender mother only to him who deals honestly with her--woe betide him who would trifle with her--she shows him her terrible earnestness.
”Only despise reason and learning, the highest powers of mankind!” How often the Mephistopheles within her soul had jeeringly cried. Yes, he was right--she was punished for having despised and misunderstood the value of the work of civilization at which mankind had toiled for years. She would atone for it. She had turned in a circle, the wheel had almost crushed her, but at least she was glad to have reached the same spot whence she started ten years ago. At least so she believed!
In this mood the duke found her on his return from Prankenberg.
”Good news, the danger is over! The old pastor was prudent enough to die with the secret!” he cried, radiant with joy, as he entered.
”Nothing was to be found! There is nothing in the church record! The Wildenaus have no proof and can do nothing unless Herr Freyer plays us a trick with the marriage certificate--”
”That anxiety is needless!” replied the countess, taking from her writing-table the little package containing Freyer's farewell note, the marriage certificate, and the account-book. ”There, read it.”
Her face wore a strange expression as she handed it to him, a look as if she were accusing him of having tempted her to murder an innocent person. She was pale and there was something hostile, reproachful, in her att.i.tude.
The duke glanced through the papers. ”This is strange,” he said very gravely: ”Is the man so great--or so small?”
”So great!” she murmured under her breath.
”Hm! I should not have expected it of him. Is this no farce? Has he really gone?”
”Yes! And here is something else.” She gave him the burgomaster's letter: ”This is the answer I received to-day to my offer to provide for Freyer's future.”
”If this is really greatness--then--” the prince drew a long breath as if he could not find the right word: ”Then--I don't know whether we have done right.”
The countess felt as if a thunderbolt had struck her. ”_You_ say that--_you_?”
The duke rose and paced up and down the room. ”I always tell the truth.
If this man was capable of such an act--then--I reproach myself, for he deserved better treatment than to be flung overboard in this way, and we have incurred a great responsibility.”
”Good Heavens, and you say this now, when it is too late!” groaned the unhappy woman.
”Be calm. The fault is _mine_--not yours. I will a.s.sume the whole responsibility--but it oppresses me the more heavily because, ever since I went to Prankenberg, I have been haunted by the question whether this was really necessary? My object was first of all to save you. In this respect I have nothing for which to reproach myself. But I overestimated your danger and undervalued Freyer. I did not know him--now that I do my motive dissolves into nothing.”
He cast another glance at Freyer's farewell note and shook his head: ”It is hard to understand! What must it have cost thus at one blow to resign everything that was dear, give up without conditions the papers which at least would have made him a rich man--and all without one complaint, without any boastfulness, simply, naturally! Madeleine, it is overwhelming--it is _shameful_ to us.”
The countess covered her face. Both remained silent a long time.
The duke still gazed at the letter. Then, resting his head on his hand and looking fixedly into vacancy, he said: ”There is a constraining power about this man, which draws us all into its spell and compels us not to fall behind him in generosity. But--how is this to be done? He cannot be reached by ordinary means. I am beginning now to understand _what_ bound you to him, and unfortunately I must admit that, with the knowledge, my guilt increases. My justification lay only in the misunderstanding of what now forces itself upon me as an undeniable fact--that Freyer was not so unworthy of you, Madeleine, as I believed!” He read the inscription on the little bank book: ”To keep the graves of my dear ones!” and was silent for a time as if something choked his utterance: ”How he must have suffered--! When I think how _I_ love you, though you have never been mine--and he once called you his--resigned you and went away, with death in his heart! Oh, you women! Madeleine, how could you do this in cold blood? If it had been for love of me--but that illusion vanished long ago.”